“It’s all right, Notus.” I have held on tightly all this time. I clutched whatwasand whatcould have been. But we have only now. For the first time in years, I understand what it means to let go.
“What about the other melody? We need to confine the beast!” The words tear free of his heaving chest.
Briefly, I pause my performance. “Notus.” His petrified eyes hold mine, swimming with confusion. “It’s all right,” I say again, softly.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the beast kicks out with a hind leg, catching the South Wind in his lower back. He falls forward with a bark of pain. The bull lunges, narrowly evading the sphere of wind Notus hurls at it. The strike of hooves on stone descends. I smile and let it come.
Here, in the black depths of the labyrinth, as I play out the darkness inside myself, I feel as if I have clarity for the first time. Do I continue to deny the truth of my heart? Do I reject myself, as I have done since childhood? Or do I welcome, shelter, embrace?
The beast is steps away. I understand, now, the harm I have inflicted upon myself in continuing to perpetuate the narrative Father wrote forme. A story that dictated no room for error, exploration, or authenticity. But I have the power to rewrite my story. I will scrub the manuscript of perfection and precision. I grant myself permission to be messy, open, raw, vulnerable.
Lowering myself onto my knees, Notus screaming in horror, I close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.
30
MY EYES SNAP OPEN. GONEis the gloom of the labyrinth, its rigid walls and passages veiled by shadow. I stand before a plain of rolling hills, grass so abundantly green I’m convinced it must have been painted on. The damp air lacks the dust of Ammara. The ground, too, is unfamiliar: springy and moist, void of cracks and baked stone.
Although—isit unfamiliar? A murmuring hush draws my attention toward the east, where the sky has begun to darken, and a wide river interrupts the landscape. Its unhurried current carves a meandering path. Trees cast long shadows over the burbling water, and beneath the trees, crouched on the riverbank, is a small child.
I stare at that child, a young girl with dark hair, swallowed by the blue fabric of her dress. A sudden ache wedges my heart alongside my ribs. It can’t be, but… why not? That dress, I once wore it myself. Those mistrustful eyes and the fingertips marked by calluses, I know them too well. The smudge below her jawbone where the violin normally rests…
The child is me.
Quietly, I approach. Young Sarai lifts her tear-stained face, and I falter, suddenly uncertain of my place.
The girl straightens, expression immediately pinching into something far more hostile. Her brown skin is a bit paler than usual. I assumeit is due to the many hours spent practicing indoors. “Who are you?” she demands.
I bite back a huff of unexpected laughter. Of course the question would possess all the enmity of a blade held to one’s throat. “I am a friend.”
Her gaze narrows. “How can we be friends when we have never met before?”
A valid question. “We met long ago.” Peering down at her, I allow my features to relax, if only to make her feel more at ease in my company. “You would not remember.” I glance around. Whatever this place, it holds a peace I find incredibly soothing. “May I sit?”
Young Sarai continues to regard me in wariness. She is perhaps ten years old, and even then, has already begun to establish high walls. “No. Go away.” And she faces forward, skinny arms crossed over her chest.
Well then.
I begin to walk in the opposite direction, not the least bit surprised by her response. I mean, sheisme. And I can be absolutely ruthless when the situation calls for it.
But as I wander along the river, I think of this child, whom I once knew. She sits alone. Something troubles her. I always wished Father would sit with me, in silence or conversation. Most days, all I wanted was company.
The river broadens. I pick wildflowers from a shallow mound. On my return trip, I splash cool water onto my face, then go in search of my younger self. Her expression darkens in annoyance at my presence. As soon as she opens her mouth—likely to demand that I keep my distance—I offer the flowers.
The distrust in the girl’s eyes hurts my heart. I know without asking that she questions this gift, its motive, whether it is safe to receive. For a second time, I ask, “May I sit?”
Eventually, she accepts the flowers with a shrug. “You may do as you wish,” she grumbles. “I hold no ownership over the river.” But her eyes brighten as she lifts the scraggly bouquet to her nose.
With a grateful nod, I settle onto the grass. The river is calm. Its waters are clear. Smooth pebbles line the bottom of the riverbed. A silver fish darts upstream.
After some time, young Sarai glances sidelong at me. “Maybe you’re right,” she says. “Maybe we have met before. You look familiar. Are you one of the ladies at court?”
I temper my smile. I do not wish to scare her off. “Technically, yes.” Not that I ever relished the obligation.
She rears back in suspicion. “What do you meantechnically?”
“Just as you are a lady at court,” I reply calmly, “I am as well.”
“Were you at Father’s nameday celebration last month?”
